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The Summer of '62; Episode 4

The Meadow

“I’m
going to kill us all,” Mrs. Larsen cried out as if that were the
final solution. The car accelerated and she steered it toward a tree.
“I can’t take it. I can’t take it anymore. I just can‘t take
it!”

“No,
Mom!” Rich saw the tree in the headlights. “Don’t let him do
this to you!”

Mr.
Larsen grabbed the wheel and they wrestled with it. The car was
slowed by the ditch and the impact with the tree was slight. The car
rested in the mud. All was quiet except for the sobs of Mrs. Larsen
and Rich.

“What’s
wrong with you two?” Mr. Larsen said. “Are you crazy?”

A
tow truck was called from a nearby home.

Rich's
sister’s husband, Chuck, picked up Mrs. Larsen and Mr. Larsen and
drove them to the garage. Rich rode to the garage in the tow truck.
At the garage Mr. Larsen told the owner that a dog ran out in front
of the car.

Rich
liked Chuck. He always had an earnest look on his face. He smiled and
joked with Rich. He gave Rich advice on growing up - not long talks,
but just snippets now and then. There was about fifteen years
difference in their ages. Rich liked being around him and was glad he
was the one that came to get them.

Chuck’s
eyes and Rich's met as they stood beside the damaged car. He chewed
as on his gum as if not effected. Rich knew he did not accept the dog
story. He knew and understood what might have really happened, but
how Rich wondered? He had to have been in Rich's place at one time
also. Chuck laid his arm around Rich's shoulder. “I’m going to
get you home. Let’s go Richard. Everything ’s going to be okay.”

It
was a quiet ride home with Mr. Larsen trying to make it seem as if
everything was normal. Rich went to sleep quickly that night and
awakened late in the morning .

It
was Sunday. Mrs. Larsen and Mr. Larsen had to work. Rich slogged down
the stairs at 11:30 AM. Uncle Bob sat in the living room rocker
reading the Sunday paper.

Uncle
Bob lived with the Larsens. He was Mrs. Larsen’s brother. He was a
quiet diminutive in thought and stature, a devious man with a
mumbling speech impediment that made him difficult to understand at
times.

Rich
sat on the couch.

Uncle
Bob seemed mesmerized by the paper, because there was not the
slightest indication that he was aware of Rich's presence.

“There
must be a lot of pictures,” Rich thought.

Uncle
Bob dropped one side of the paper. His fingers dug into his wire gray
hair and scratched. His eyes never left the page.

“Can
I see the sports section?” Rich asked.

He
fingered through the paper and handed the sports section to Rich. He
looked at the box scores, but soon thoughts gravitated to the
previous evening and wondering what it all meant. Rich wondered if
Mrs. Larsen and Mr. Larsen would stay together.

“Mom
and Dad use your car today?” Rich asked.

“Yup.”

“Mom
swerved to miss a dog,” Rich said.

“That’s
what she said,” Uncle Bob said.

“Hit
a tree.”

“Very
much damage?”

“Banged
in the front right finder,” Rich said. “They said it will be
ready by Friday.”

They
sat at the kitchen table eating the bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast.
Uncle Bob said nothing to Rich. He chewed like a cow and stared into
infinity without blinking as if a robot. When done eating he left a
dirty plate, knife, and fork at the table.

“Excuse
me,” Rich said as he exited the kitchen.

Puzzled,
Uncle Bob said, “I didn’t say nuttin’."

“Oh,
I thought I heard you say thanks.”

“Nope,”
Uncle Bob said unaffected and went back to the Sunday paper in the
living room.

Rich
was alone. He didn’t know for how long, but it was for some time.

He
went back to his room and leafed through volume 'S' of the World
Book Encyclopedia. He was nearing the end of his goal to read the
entire set of encyclopedias.

He
read about Spain. There was an aerial photo of a bull fighting arena
in Cadiz. He imagined walking the streets of Cadiz. He heard Spanish
guitar music and polite people greeting him. “That is where my
royal Spanish parents lived who lost me at birth and I was taken to
the United States by anti-Franco sympathizers for safety sake. I was
not Rich Larsen, but Juan Gomez.” The room began to warm from the
sun and no breeze was coming through the window. Rich decided to go
to a place that was always cool and refreshing, a place to relax and
dream - the meadow.

The
meadow was a mile from the farm. About a hundred sheep grazed there
in serenity. It was bordered on the west by Interstate 75, on the
south by old State Route 25, to the north by State Road, and to the
south by a farm. The meadow was sixty acres of low laying pasture,
good only for grazing. A stream split the meadow in half. Two creeks
converged just before old State Route 25 to form one and then passed
under a bridge and into the meadow. The water moves fast until mid
summer, then it slows to a trickle. The stream pours over rocks and
lazily winds through the meadow. Two willows about a third of the way
into the meadow forms an arch over the steam. It was cool there. It
was a place where troubles are discharged and diluted into the waters
and carried into a river and far away. Beneath the willows was shade.

Rich
once stayed there to shelter himself from the rain. One time he laid
there and went to sleep.

The
willow branches hung so low they were like a drape that hid anyone
from the rest of the world. On the hottest day it was cool beneath
its shade. The sheep kept the grass trim like a manicured lawn of a
royal estate.

Rich
thought of it as a kingdom and he the sovereign. He was a good king
and it was a model land.

There
was not one inch of that meadow that needed change or improvement. It
was perfect.

Sheep
have a way of gracing the landscape, they give it balance,
completeness, and an acuity of security. Sheep can’t dwell in
danger.

Beneath
the willow Rich laid with his head resting against the trunk musing
the activities of the previous evening.

A
cool breeze excited the small willow leaves and they shimmered and
tinkled like tiny wind chimes. Flowing water from the stream
splattered and trickled over smooth speckled rocks near his feet. A
twig navigated the small rapids and floated hurriedly away until it
lodged against a small patch of grass that stood alone like an island
in the middle stream. In the distance was the occasional soothing
bleat of gentle restful sheep.

A
tear slowly rolled from Rich's eye. “How will Dad redeem himself?
Will it be kind words? Will it be a gift? Will it be a promise? Never
with an apology - never. Two men in my life, one with the inability
to say, thank you, and the other with the inability to say, I’m
sorry. If I come to be known for any extraordinary measure in my life
it will be for nothing if I am not known for saying “Thank you”
and “I’m sorry.” But what about now? A cord has been severed -
a sacred trust broken. How can I make sense of the dichotomy of
thought in my mind. I know the man really loves me, but how can he
act in such a shameful and repulsive manner? Is it evil? Even evil,
men have a huge capacity for compassion and love. Is it insanity? If
so it can’t be helped; it is a disease of the mind. One thing is
for certain, it is not normal. It is destructive. Why can’t he see
what he is doing to Mom and me and change or just go away?”

Rich
looked up through the maze of branches and caught an occasional peek
of the sky as the breezes parted the tiny slivers of willow leaves.
Clouds hypnotically floated by to places beyond the horizon. “Can
God see me? Is he looking down as I am looking up? Does he see my
pain and sorrow.”

From Kenton Lewis: You Must Read This First To Know What The Heck Goes On Here

This site contains mostly fiction. Currently a novel is posted every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday entitled Beyond Beyond. It is broken down into short episodes between two and four pages each. Thus, if you enter on anything other than episode 1, it would be good the scroll down to find previous episodes.

The archives are full of short stories. Some short stories are very short, just one posting. Others are broken down into episodes also.

Every post contains 350 to 1,500 words.

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This Is He

Taken shortly after my beheading. I refused to give up coffee. "Not from my cold dead hands!"